


Sherlock de Bergerac

by fairy911911



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 years war, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Cyrano de Bergerac - Freeform, F/M, I mess with laws of the time, I'm Sorry, M/M, Multi, Musketeers, My First Fanfic, Poetry, Romance, Sherlock's a sassy badass, Sword Fighting, Unrequited Love, enlightenment era, this is probably really bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairy911911/pseuds/fairy911911
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1640 France, during the time of musketeers. Sherlock Kingsley Shackleton de Bergerace, a cadet serving in the French Military, is a brash, strong-willed fighter of many talents. In addition to being a champion duelist, he is a gifted poet, but he has the ability of deduction and great intelligence, the rude personality accompanying this makes him disliked throughout Paris. When he falls in love with his childhood friend John Watson, he thinks he is unworthy for his friend's love and instead uses his poetry to help his fellow cadet, Mary Morstan, woo the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1 - A performance at the Theater

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I don't own any of the character, and I am not writing this for profit or financial gain.
> 
> Secondly, to make this work I mess with the laws of the time. So:  
> -Gay marriage is legal  
> -women can fight as soldiers  
> -basically I just had France say fuck gender roles
> 
> Thirdly, I will write two endings for this, because I have some issues with the original, but I want to honor it as well.
> 
> Lastly, thank you for reading. I love to hear your guys comments.
> 
>  
> 
> This is the second time I am posting the first chapter of this fic. I was working on the second chapter on my phone and it was deleted. I'm glad I had a back up. Sorry about that guys.

Mary stepped out of the coldness of night and into the warm of the theater, taken back by the beauty of it. In front of her stood the large platform that acted as the stage, surrounding it a carved proscenium gilded in gold paint. From there benches of traders, musketeers, pages, food sellers, and any other type of Parisian covered the hall. Around the lower class sat the gentry and aristocracy in a low gallery. Lanterns illuminated the entire space, and she looked up to see a huge candelabrum being lifted into the rafters. It was quite a sight.

Around her was the noise of the citizens, the life of the city: two musketeers fenced in the corner, a pair of flunkies played cards and drank from a bottle of wine, musicians on stage began warming up for the performance, a food seller and her cart maneuvered around the crowd calling out “Cider, raspberry cordial, oranges!” However, she couldn’t find the one face or she was looking for: the young man that had stolen her heart. She didn’t even realize that her new friend Stamford had left her and moved towards two marquis. She hurried to join him.

“Make room, will you?” the man practically shouted. “Animals!”

“Scum,” his female companion sneered. “It’s positively obscene, really, to come in early with the shop keepers. There aren’t even any decent feet to tread on.” Her eyes rested on Stamford, and she gave a sly smile. “Ah, Michael.”

“Hello. Irene, Mycroft,” he replied with a grin. Then both marquis were staring at Mary. She blushed. “Oh, may I introduce the Baroness de Neuvillette.”

Her cheeks only redden as she curtsied under the intense gazes of Irene and Mycroft. “Mary, please.”

“Mary comes from Touraine.”

“Really,” Irene asked with a condescending smile on her lips.

“Well, yes,” Mary replied awkwardly.

“A stranger to Paris?”

“I’ve been here less than three weeks. I’m joining the guards,” she added triumphantly.

 “That sounds fascinating,” Mycroft interjected, “but unfortunately we must leave you. Come, Irene, let us take our seats.” He held out his arm, which the woman took with an elegant but firm hold.

“Lovely to meet you, dear,” she said, nodding to both Mary and Stamford as the couple strolled away.

Mary resumed her search for the young man that had stolen her heart, but he seemed to have not arrived yet. Stamford turned to her, slightly irritated.

“Look, I came here to help you if I could. But it’s pretty clear to that the man isn’t coming. I’ll be on my way – I’ve some serious drinking to do tonight.”

“No, stay just a while longer,” Mary pleaded. Stamford furrowed his eyebrows. “ _Please_. Help me find this –”

“Man without a name?” he finished. A soft prelude music began to fill the theater. The calls of “lemonade” and “Macaroons” from the food seller rang through the air.

“You’ll know him.” She sighed. “I’m afraid, afraid he’ll be charming and exquisite, and I’ll just speak and show my –”

“Lack of wit.”

Mary snorted. “This smart new language they all seem to speak and write eludes me. All I know is –”

“How to fight.” Stamford laughed. “A soldier conquered by two enemies: shyness and love.”

“Stamford,” she pleaded, “I _must_ know who he is. Wait till he comes – he’s bound to come.” She desperately searched for a sign of the man. He was nowhere to be scene.

“Oh, no he won’t. Besides, thirst waits for no man. Sorry, I must go.” He patted her on the shoulder and made his way to the exit. He dramatically called behind him, “I’ve the whole of Paris to swim through.”

“Stamford!” Mary ran after him. Luckily, he was intersected by the food seller before he could make it out the door.

“Orangeade?” she asked brightly.

“Oh God,” he shuddered.

“How about milk?” the seller tried again.

Stamford smirked. “My sweet young dairymaid, I was weaned long, _long_ time ago.”

“Wine?”

Mary smiled with relief, knowing the drunkard couldn’t resist the offer of alcohol. After a moment of internal struggle, Stamford smiled wearily. “Very well.” He turned to Mary. “I’ll stay a while.”

He paid for his drink and took long gulp of it. Stamford then seemed to notice a small woman with mousy brown hair. He waved and shouted to her. “Molly!” Molly turned to him, smiled warmly, and came over to the two. Stamford hugged her a little too tightly and clasped an arm over her shoulder. “This is the woman who lets you eat and owe if you’re a poet.”

“Monsieur Stamford, have you seen Monsieur de Bergerac anywhere?” Molly asked.

“The princess of pastry cooks,” he exclaimed, ignoring her question.

Molly turned a bright shade of pink. “Oh, really, now. I just allow that poets honor my establishment.”

“On credit.” He turned to Mary. “She’s a talented poet herself.”

Her blush deepened. “Well, some have said it.”

“Cracked aren’t you, crazy about the art?” Stamford asked.

“Well –”

“For an ode she’ll pay a rhubarb tart.”

Let’s say a tartlet,” Molly qualified.

“And a sonnet?”

“A small Swiss roll.”

“As for a play?”

Molly dramatically put her hands to her heart and smiled. “The drama – ah, my soul seethes!”

Stamford laughed. “Tell us how much it cost ou to come tonight.”

“Four fruit flans and six cream buns. Where’s Sherlock?”

“That man’s not much of a theatergoer,” Stamford replied dryly.

Molly looked upset by this news. “Oh, but he’s _got_ to be here.”

Stamford raised an eyebrow. “ _Got_ to be?”

“Anderson’s performing,” Molly explained with a mischievous look in her eyes.

“True, it is more fun when Sherlock insults him.” He took a swig of wine. “But that’s not a reason why he has to be here.”

“Don't you know that Sherlock has warned him to quit the acting on the pain of his displeasure for a whole month,” she clarified.

Mary was now completely confused. “Wait. This Sherlock – who is he?”

“He’s a consulting cadet,” Molly answered. “The only one of his kind.”

“Oh, not aristocratic, then?” Mary asked.

Molly shrugged. “Sufficiently so. He works with the guards.” Molly looked over Mary’s shoulder at someone. “There’s his friend Donovan.” Mary turned to see this Donovan: a curly-haired woman in a guard uniform pacing nervously. Molly called over to her. “Donovan come over here. What have you to say about this Sherlock business?”

Donovan crossed to them with an exasperated sigh. “Oh God.”

“I see,” said Stamford taking a sip from his drink.

“I’m worried,” she remarked.

“You have every right to be,” he replied.

Molly, oddly enough, was just smiling through it all. “What an extraordinary man he is.”

“Exquisite – one of the world’s prodigies,” Donovan said dryly.

“Poet.”

“Fighter.”

“Scientist.”

“Detective.”

“Freak,” Donovan muttered under her breath. Mary had to wonder what it meant that his friends insulted him.

“Ah yes,” said Stamford as he gave a wryly smile, “his deducing skill, though – that’s what’s truly bizarre.”

Molly gave a light laugh. “Bizarre, excessive, hyperbolic, droll. But brilliant, none-the-less. He can look you over once and know everything about you: what you do, where you live, your family history. Why, even your favorite animal and what you had for supper the night before. It scares even the bravest of souls and will anger even the gentlest. But he doesn’t care what anyone thinks; seems he’d rather be alone with his temperament most of the time. Proud, cocky, insolent: that's Sherlock de Bergerac.”

 

-o0o-

 

The whole group laughed. Molly and Donovan began to talk of Molly’s work at the bakery. Mary then heard gasped behind her, “Look at him – how unbearably handsome.” She turned around and saw none other than the man – _the_ man. He was dressed in garments of scarlet and gold. Mary watched him run a hand through his short blonde hair. At such a closer distances she could tell that his eyes were a deep blue and not the brown she had assumed. She grabbed Stamford’s arm and desperately pointed at the man. Stamford chuckled.

“Ah. So that’s the one.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she breathed. “Tell me – who is he?”

“Second name: Watson. Known as John, though christened Hamish.”

“Jawn,” she sighed ardently.

“Johnathan, really, friend of the Sherlock we were just talking about,” Stamford said, but Mary hardly heard him. She was too absorbed in the beauty that was John Watson. He smiled and her heart nearly jumped from her chest. But then he saw a nobleman with dark hair take hold of John’s arm and her heart dropped. The raging fire of jealousy ran in her veins.

“Who’s that with her?” she questioned through clenched teeth.

Stamford looked over to where she was starring and rolled his eyes in disgust. He told a huge swig of wine and let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s the Comte de Moriarty. Totally smitten with him, but irreparably wed to the niece of the none other than the Cardinal Richelieu. If he can’t marry John, he proposes to hitch him instead to a certain unpleasant viscount.” Stamford pointed at an arrogant looking nobleman next to Moriarty. “There he is: Moran. The viscount is,” he paused, looking for the right word, “complaisant. So Moriarty will push in there, if you catch my meaning. Moriarty could unleash, if he wished, such concentrated hell that would make him wish he’d never been born. Ah well, that’s Moriarty, the swine. He has it in for me. I wrote a little song about him showing up his piggish mach-machia-machiavellianism.” Mary sighed. The alcohol was really getting to him now. “I’ll sing it for you now.”

Mary smiled awkwardly, trying to get out of hearing the song. “No, I’m going to –”

Stamford put his hands up to stop her protests. “You’re going to listen. Listen.” He began to sign in a cracked and slurred voice that rang through the theatre.

            _The bite of that_

_Aristocrat,_

_Like any other sewer rat,_

_Infects the gut_

_With such a glut_

_Of venom in the groin or gut_

_That, so they tell,_

_The victims yell_

_Not from the pain but from the smell._

The crowd around him cheered and laughed at the song. Mary stole a glance at Moriarty, seething. John had cracked a smile. Moriarty, not please, forcefully grabbed John, pulling him away from the crowd of common folk. John’s other hand went immediately to his shoulder, a look of pain flashing across his face. Fury bubbled up inside Mary. She grabbed her sword and began to move towards Moriarty. “Let’s get this over now, once and forever.”

The hand of Stamford reached out and pulled her back, turning her to face him. “Who?”

“The Viscount Moran.”

“Idiot,” he said, smacking her on the arm. “Small stuff like you – he’d ear you alive. Stop it. And see, he’s looking at you.”

Mary turned around to meet John’s eyes. His face turned a slight shade of pink as he smiled at her and gave a small wave. She waved back. It was too good to be true. “Oh God, he’s looking at me. At me.”

Stamford grinned at her. “And with that, me and my thirst will leave you in peace.” He patted her arm, drained the last of the wine, and headed off into the night.

At that moment Mary’s world consisted only of John. She did pay attention to Molly and Donovan, not the impatient spectators, nothing. The spell was only broken when Moriarty and Moran practically dragged John, and an elderly lady Mary guessed to be a type of duenna, to their seats. Jealously and rage filled her and she reached around to grab her sword, muttering, “Good as dead. Let me hurl it in his face, my –”

In hindsight, she should have paid more attention to her surroundings because she finds a hand already on the handle of the blade. Mary clutches at the hand and drags the pickpocket to face her. The pickpocket tries to smile at her. It doesn’t help.

“Quite a crush tonight,” the thief began. “We’re practically in one another’s pockets.”

“So I see,” Mary glared at him. “I was looking for a glove.”

“And you found a mitt,” he smirked. Mary tightened her hold so that the smirk became a grimace. “I didn’t have no intention . . . It was just a bit of,” she gripped even tighter, “ _ow,_ fun. Let me go, miss, and I’ll let you into a secret.”

Mary forcefully pulled the pickpocket forward so they were nose to nose. “Secret? What Secret?”

“That Stamford, him who just left, he’s not got more than an hour to live.” The thief spoke rapidly with a strange combination of fear and determination in his eyes. “He wrote a song attacking one of these gents, who’s sending along a hundred me to get him. I’m one, that’s how I know, you see.”

Mary narrowed her eyes. “What ‘gent?”

The man made a face. “Oh really now; personal discretion.”

She gave him the most terrifying staring that one could muster, but he glared right back at her, and it seemed that the thief would not give in to this demand. Mary ultimately gave in. “Where will they be?”

“The Porte de Nesle. That’s on his way home, see. You’d better get a message to him,” he warned.

Mary remembered that Stamford was out drinking and could be anywhere. “How am I going to find him?”

The pickpocket shrugged. “Start off now. Try all the public houses: The Red Cow, The Broken Corset, Pineapple – try the lot.” He gave Mary a slow smile. “Quick, though. Soon he’ll not be able to hear.”

Mary glared at the man, but resigned and pushed him away. He rubbed his wrist and scurried off, no doubt looking for his next target. Mary fumed. “Cowards!” she all but screamed. “A hundred men against one drunk.” She looked over to where John was sitting and sighed at the irony. “To have to leave just when I’ve found him.” She weighted her options: go on a wild chase for Stamford and risk never speaking to John and never acting on true love, or staying here and letting Stamford die. She knew what she had to do. Damn. “Stamford comes first. Where the hell is he?” Mary asked herself as she ran out of the theater.

 

-o0o-

 

Donovan’s eyes searched the agitated crowd, but luckily she didn’t see the terror named Sherlock. Not that she didn’t like Sherlock – he was her friend and she had to admit he was a brilliant fighter – but the man was careless and arrogant and rude. And his gift really did scare her at times. No one understood her pain: either they hated him like Moriarty or worshiped him like Molly.

“No Sherlock,” she sighed, relief in her voice.

Molly however looked disappointed. “I can’t understand it.”

“It’s possible he hasn’t seen the playbill,” she said absentmindedly. She knew that that was, of course, impossible – nothing ever got unnoticed by Sherlock – but she pitied the poor girl and wanted to help her unreasonable devotion.

The prelude music faded into the theater, then silence. After three beats from the conductor, the overture swelled and consumed everything in the building. The play was beginning, but the stage still bare of its main actor.

“He comes on now?” Donovan asked.

“He starts it off,” Molly replied. She looked around once more. “Very odd. No Sherlock. I’ve lost my bet.” Molly took a roll out of her apron and handed it to Donovan who accepted it graciously.

“Thank God.”

The actor then decided to enter the stage. Anderson was dressed in a gaudy shepherd’s costume, complete with stylized hat and bagpipes. The clash of bright colors made him resemble a rainbow. This only highlighted his lack of acting ability. Not that the acting was too important to Donovan – she liked the man well enough regardless of talent. And so did the audience. With his entrance cheers of “Anderson, Anderson” were heard throughout the theater. He took his place center stage, struck an overly dramatic pose, and began.

“Far from the court and city,” really, the combination of his whiny voice and the bellow of an actor should not be made, “ah, how good to breathe the incense of the verdant wood, while cool harmonious breezes seem to say –”

“Fat fool! I ordered you to stay away,” cried a deep voice from the back of the theater. A voice that Donovan would know anywhere. Damn it.

“It’s him,” Molly practically squealed.

Donovan sighed. “God help us all.”

“Balloon, baboon, buffoon, for one month I order you to rest and save us from the atrocity named your acting.” Anderson stood on stage, dumb struck. “You hesitated? Get off that stage.”

A man from the crowd stood up. “Don’t let him intimate you, Anderson. Continue.” Other such calls came from the spectators.

Anderson began again, but this time with fear in his eyes. “Far from the court and city, ah, how -”

“Good!” the voice interrupted again. “You hear this cane?” The sound of wood knocking on wood was heard throughout the theater. “I’ll plant a wood, splinter by splinter, over your rich terrain.”

Anderson looked around for help. There was none. “Far from the sort and kitty,” he flubbed.

“Yet again you disobey?”

And out of the shadows stepped a man with dark hair and pale skin. His long black coat with red stitching hung other his purple doublet and ridiculously tight breeches. A top his head sat an over the top hat with the largest blue panache Donovan had ever seen. In his left had he gripped a plain cane, but his right was ready to grab at the long rapier at his side. Donovan’s head fell to her hands in exasperation. That was Sherlock de Bergerac.

 

-o0o-

 

Sherlock strolled into the light of theatre and made is way to the stage. He could hear Anderson begging for help. Idiot. No one with even half a brain would dare fight him. He heard one of the Marquises – most likely Mycroft – shout, “Carry on acting.”

“No, not for four more weeks.” Sherlock turned to Anderson. “One more word and I’ll be forced to remove you myself.”

Moriarty rose from his seat. “This is too much. Continue, Anderson.”

“Discontinue, rather,” Sherlock smirked, “unless he, unwilling or too stupid to retire, needs disemboweling.” He frowned. “Off, off, you offal. Your very presence lowers the IQ of the entire theater.” Anderson remained frozen with shock. “Very well, then. Stay, and I’ll remove you slice by slice.” Sherlock drew his blade and pointed it at Anderson.

The actor tried to summon up the remains of his dignity. He looked Sherlock strait in the eye and said, “Monsieur, in insulting me you insult the Tragic Muse.” The crowd hummed with murmurs of agreement.

Sherlock snorted. “If the Tragic Muse had the dubious honor, dumb sir, of your acquaintance, she would not abuse her pious duty. Seeing your ignorance and disrespect to the fine arts, she’d kick you in the tragic backside.”

There was an uproar from the crowd. Shouts of “Disgraceful,” “Shocking,” “Scandalous,” and “hilarious” were heard through the mess. Sherlock looked over to see Molly smiling brightly at him and Donovan shaking her head in annoyance. On the other side of the theater, Moriarty tried to piece his skull with his glare. John, however, was laughing hysterically. It was time to wrap this up. It had already gotten boring.

“Silence!” he screamed. The entire room fell quite; one could hear a pin drop. “I hereby issue a collective challenge.” He went up to a group of spectators. “How about you? Or you?” The citizens blankly stared at him. Sherlock turned to face the rest of the group. “Come on now. Who’ll be the first to breathe his last? I’ll make a list. I’ll award the funeral honors that are his due. Raise your right hands, all those who wish to die.” No one moved a muscle. He smirked. “Good. Let me say this: I want something desperately simple – to see the stage rid of this blithering idiot. And if the imbecile won’t go of his own free will,” he tapped his blade to the ground, “well then, the sword.” Sherlock turned to face a withering Anderson. He sighed. “Buffoon are you still here?” Anderson didn’t move – it looked as if he couldn’t. Sherlock then got an idea. “How about this. Show me wrong and prove that you have more brain power than I give you credit for. I’ll clap my hands three times. Remove yourself on the third.” Clap.

Cries of protest rang through the crowd. Anderson’s head nervously searched the crowd for an ally. Despite the protestations, it seemed no one would put themselves in harm’s way to save his skin. “It seems to me,” clap, “on mature consideration –” Clap.

Anderson ran off the stage. The audience called after him, shouting, “Coward!” Sherlock just smirked and put away his sword. He was about to walk out when the angry citizen from before shouted out, “What was that? Why do you hate Anderson?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and faced the young man. “I have two reasons. He is a moron with half a brain who damages my intelligence every time he opens his mouth. As for the second? That’s my secret.”

“It’s mad,” the audience member exclaimed. “That actor has His Grace the Duke of Candale as protector. Do you have such a patron?”

Sherlock just stared down the man. “No.”

The man snorted. “No patron?”

“I hate repeating myself.”

“No patron to protect you with his name?”

“Is everyone here tonight stupid?”

The spectator huffed. “God, do you know of the force the duke possesses?”

Sherlock eyed the man. “Well if the rest of his soldiers have your level of fighting ability, I have nothing to worry about.”

The man gaped at him. “What.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re obviously military. Stance is strong, shoulders back, resolve. Your left hand is unsteady – it keeps wanting to rest at something on your side. Your blade no doubt. Now this could all mean you’re nobility, but you sit with the common folk and the aristocracy. You could be a musketeer, but I have never seen you before and your level of dress suggests a higher position in the guards. Also your boots.”

“My boots?”

“Yes. The duke supplies a certain style of boot for all of his guards. And they’re new: relatively little scuff marks, no holes, still clean for the most part. Now you could have gotten your old ones replaced, but you’re new to the guards – I haven’t seen you in the city and only a fool new to the area would dare confront me. It is also known that the duke hired a large batch of soldiers from the south. So, new to Paris, new to the guards. Fresh out of training, meaning you have very little real world experience. Wouldn’t stand a chance against an experienced swordsman in a duel. Also you’re just stupid. Anyone with half a brain would know to not go through Paris unarmed if you could help it. The city’s dangerous.” Sherlock smirked at the soldier and turned to walk away.

“Freak,” the man muttered under his breath.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. His hand went to grasp the hilt of his blade. “What did you call me?”  
The man stuttered, “What? Nothing. I – I said nothing.”

“I’m unusual, aren’t I?” Sherlock turned to him. “Come on, let’s hear all about it. Talk!”

The soldier was frozen with fear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Why? Is it because it’s true?”

“No, no, of course not. You’re not a freak.”

Sherlock acted as though he didn’t hear the man. “Too strange, too different from you, am I?”

“You’re quite normal. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in disgust. “I am a _freak_ ,” he growled. “Ignorant clod, a man ought to be proud, yes, proud of such a gift. I am brilliant!” He gestured to the other spectators. “Smarter than everyone here combined and everyone knows it.” He glared at the helpless guard. “My brain is a mechanism with the sparks of genius, pride, wit, liberty, and courage – unlike yours.” He turned to the group. Unlike all of yours. That’s what makes me a freak.” He faced the man and brought his sword to the soldier’s neck. “And don’t you forget it.” The man made a truly pathetic whimpering noise. Sherlock withdrew his blade, and the man scurried away like the vermin he was.

 

-o0o-

 

Sherlock stood triumphantly, basking in the silence of fear and awe. The moment was unfortunately cut short by the mocking drawl of Moriarty.

“He’s a bit of a bore.”

“A braggart,” Moran agreed. “Only a rooster would be so frustratingly cocky.”

Moriarty smiled. “So may we leave it to you to take care of him?”

Moran stood up. “Leave it to me.” He approached Sherlock with a sneer of insolence. “Hey, you’re a monstrosity.”

He regarded Moran with an air of disinterest. ‘Precisely what I was saying.” Moran laughed, he actually laughed. The fool thought he had won. Sherlock smirked. “Nothing more? Just a bad insult and a smirk? Oh, come on, there are at least fifty decent comments you could make about my gift. For instance, the frank aggressive type: ‘if I ever reached that level of annoyingness, I’d kill myself.’ The curious: ‘if you’re so brilliant why can’t for figure out decent manners?’ The insolent: ‘congratulations! With that gift you know right away that no one cares for you.’ The pedant: ‘are you some type of seer? Sorry, monsieur that religion died out years ago.’ Impressed: ‘Wish I could be half as arrogant.’ Warlike: train it on the enemy!’ And finally, with tragic sighs and cries: “but soft! What buzzing from yonder stage erupts? It is the freak; let Sherlock de Bergerac be done.’” Sherlock paused and smiled softly as the audience around him burst into laughter. Moran fumed in front of him. “That is what you could have said, Viscount _Moron_ , if you had half a brain inside your head. Leave the insults to your betters.” He crossed his arms. “Or better yet, those who can beat you, meaning me. But be quite sure, you idiot, even if you possessed the words and wit, I’d never let you get away with it.”

Moran for his part looked as if he were about to explode. “Arrogant git, without even a pair of gloves to his name, let alone the lace and velvet a man of breeding loves.”

Sherlock nearly laughed. This fool though he cared about how he appeared looked to others? He glanced down at his plain clothing, worn and dirty cape, and calloused hands from, yes, a lack of glove. But that didn’t make him less than Moran.

“I’m one of those who prefers to wear their elegance within. I may be less of a fop than you, sir, but I’m more wholesome. I have never wandered abroad without my insults freshly laundered, or conscience with the sleep picked form its eye, or honor with its ragged cuffs. My very scruples get a manicure. When I walk out I am certain I smell of nothing but scrubbed liberty and polished independence.”

Moran sputtered, “You –”

“Gloves,” Sherlock cried, snapping his fingers. “You mentioned gloves. You have me there.” He put his arms up in a motion of surrender. His right arm moved down to produce a single glove from a back pocket. Sherlock stroked it tenderly. “I have this one left over from a pair – an old, old pair. I can’t exactly remember where its partner went, but I think I left it in some viscount’s face.”

Moran, throbbing with rage, shouted, “Savage! Clod! Flatfooted bloody fool!”

Sherlock only removed his hat and bowed mockingly low for the viscount. “And I am Sherlock Kingsley Shackleton de Bergerac,” he answered with a childlike grin.

Sherlock suddenly felt a burning pain as a solid fist made contact with his left cheek. He rubbed the searing flesh. Moran crossed his arms and smirked. “There.”

Sherlock slowly composed himself and stood at his full height of six feet. An idea had come to mind. “Would you be terribly bored if I composed a poem?”

Moran’s face twisted into a look of confusion. “What?”

“My lord, I’m thoroughly versed in churning verses out while dueling. I’ll improvise a ballade.” Sherlock crossed away from Moran to an acceptable duel distance.

“A ballade,” the viscount sneered.

Sherlock’s face became one of mocked apologetics. “Sorry, my lord, to baffle you with hard technical expressions. I’ll explain for you. Three eight-lined stanzas, and then one quatrain. My proposal: to fight and compose at the same time, and then kill you on the final line.” He smiled, but his eyes only gleamed with hate and anger.

Moran, in his anger, unsheathed his sword without a word and took a dueling stance. Sherlock looked Moran over. He was large, which meant more power, but was nowhere near as lithe as Sherlock. That would have to be used to his advantage.

“I bear my head from crown to nape,” he began while removing and tossing away his hat. He began to untie his cape. “And slowly, leisurely reveal the fighting trim beneath my cape.” Moran made a lunge at him, but Sherlock deflected it with the heavy fabric. He threw the cape aside, only to be caught by Donovan. “Then finally I strip my steel.” He admired the craftsmanship of the sliver blade. “A thoroughbred from head to heel, disdainful of the reign or bit. Tonight I draw the lyric wheel. But when the poems ends –” Sherlock was cut off by Moran making a move towards him. He parried the attack to his abdomen; he went for a riverso – a cut from right to left – but was blocked by Moran. “I hit,” Sherlock finished.

The men began to circle each other like two predators. Moran made the first move, thrusting towards Sherlock, who easily blocked it with a lunge. The soldier used the same movement on Moran, who only barely blocked it. Sherlock laughed. “Come and be burst you purple grape; spurt out the juice beneath your cape. Gibber, and show, you ribboned ape, the fat your folderols conceal.” The two were at a distance so that only the tips of the blades touched. Sherlock grinned wickedly and probed the nervous Moran. He beat the blade once, twice, three times. “Let’s ring your bells – a pretty peal.” Sherlock pointed his sword a spot over Moran’s right shoulder. “Is that a fly? I’ll see to it!” He made a cut for the neck, but at the last moment the viscount parried. He binded against Sherlock’s blade, pushing his arm out of the range of attack. Moran made a cut for the knees, but Sherlock quickly jumped out of the way. “Ah, soon you’ll feel your blood congeal, for, when the poem ends,” both men’s blades met between them with a clang, “I hit.”

When the two disengaged, Sherlock feigned a contemplative expression. “I need a rhyme to hold the shape.” Moran looked utterly confused at the suddenly lack of dueling. Sherlock mimed a fishing rod with his rapier. “Gape, fish, I’m going to wind the reel.” The viscount’s confusion quickly melted into disgust and charged at the soldier. Sherlock easily parried the attack and thrust right back at him. “My rod is lusting for its rape, the sharp tooth slavers for its meal. There, let it strike!” He made a diagonal cut at Moran, who barely was able to parry. “Did you feel the bite? Not yet.” Moran pushed him away and ran towards him while Sherlock dodged. “The Vultures sit until the closing of the deal. The poem ends, and _then_ I hit.” Moran, too busy flailing at Sherlock, didn’t block the sharp cut to his right bicep. He clutched his fighting arm in pain. The tip of Sherlock’s rapier found its way to his neck. He had lost.

“Prince, drop your weapon humbly.” The sound of metal hitting stone was heard, but Sherlock didn’t dare take his eyes off the viscount. “Kneel!” Moran’s knees hit the ground with a thud. Sherlock, the tip of his blade keeping contact with the man’s neck, circled behind the viscount. “Seek grace in from God in requisite repentance. Now I stump the seal. The poem ended –” Sherlock’s blade was positioned to slit his throat, but he paused. Could he really be as vile as Moran? Was he a murder? “And I hit.”

Moran’s head hit the stones as Sherlock pushed him to the floor. He spared the fool’s life. He finally came back into reality, and the thunderous cheer of the spectators rang in his ears. He looked to Molly, who was clapping and jumping for joy; Donovan, next to her, just appeared to be relieved that he had survived. And then his eyes settled on John, who was clapping and smiling from ear to ear. He heard him shout “Amazing!” and the man’s heart fluttered in his chest. He was almost too distracted to hear the shuffling behind him as Moran rose to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw the viscount make the move to thrust. Sherlock copied the move in an attempt to block it, but he gravely miscalculated. He faced a shocked Moran with a sword protruding from his abdomen. The man stumbled back and fell to the ground. Blood began to pour out of his wound and mouth, staining the stones beneath him. Viscount Moran was dead.

 

-o0o-

 

The crowd quickly dissipated, not wanting to be involved in the murder. Sherlock, however, was not worried. The fool had entered into a duel with a warning of a death ending it, and he had acted out of self-defense. No harm would come to him.

A few men dragged the lifeless body out to the streets as Donovan walked over to him carrying the cape and hat. “We need to talk,” she said as he unceremoniously took the garments.

He motioned to the stage, and both soldiers sat on it, facing each other. By now they were the only ones left in the theater. “What’s on your mind,” he asked.

“Listen,” Donovan began, “Theses fops and their bellicose natures are starting to twist your ideas of gentlemanly behavior. Ask anyone what they think of these stunts.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Dull.”

“But don’t you understand?” Donovan questioned. “Your enemies are multiplying.”

“And the latest figure is?” he asked absent-mindedly, laying back to admire the architecture of the celling.

“Excluding women, forty-eight by my count.”

“Delightful.”

Donovan paused, no doubt trying to control her frustration. “This life of yours – where’s it going to lead you to? What system is it based on?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for some time, instead starring at the celling and counting the tiles. He was at 33. “My old way was bumbling through in aimless complication, forced to play too many parts . . .” he trailed off. 45, 46.

“And now?” Donovan pushed.

“I’m going to take the simplest approach to life, simplest and best. I’ve decided to excel at everything.”

Donovan sighed. “I’ll let that pass.” She looked Sherlock in the eye, or best she could. “Now please tell me the real reason for your hatred of Anderson.”

Sherlock made a sort of growling noise in his throat. “That idiot. That moron, too stupid to realize the seriousness of a threat when it looks him in the eye. He’s a womanizer to every lady _and_ gentleman in Paris, exploiting them until they are useless in his eyes.” He noticed how Donovan looked away and coughed. He had seen how she was growing to fancy him. Ah well, better that the truth came out quickly. “I’ve choked down my disgust. Until, one night, one victim that he chose, one man . . .” He trailed off again and resumed his counting. He was up to 68.

Donovan looked him over with concern. “Yes?”

Sherlock debated telling her the truth. He finally gave in, figuring it would be less painful if he just told her. “I was in love with.” He sighed. “No, God knows, I _am_ in love with.”

She stared at him in utter shock. “But you never said a word. How could he know, how could anyone?”

He gave a hallow laugh. “Funny, isn’t it? My gift proceeds me everywhere, saying, ‘beware: don’t love Sherlock!’” Now he knew this was not quite true; people also hated him for his swordsmanship, superiority complex, and overall distasteful personality, but it was easier to think that the majority of the population was just jealous. He gave a snort. “And now I must love the best, the brightest, bravest, wittiest, the most handsome –”

“Handsome?” Donovan interrupted. “God, who is he?”

Sherlock starred up at the celling. “He’s a mortal danger without knowing it, undreamed-of-in-his-own-dreams exquisite. A roseleaf ambush where love lurks to seize the unwary heart. The unwary eye that sees him smile sees pearled perfection.” Sherlock became totally enthralled in the poetry of his love, losing focus on the surrounding world. “He can knit grace from twine of air. The heavens sit in every gesture.” He trailed off again, completely lost in the perfect memories of the golden-haired boy with eyes bluer than the sea.

Donovan gave him a look utter pity. After a moment she gently said, “You know, there’s no ban on saying his name. John’s name.”

Sherlock huffed. “It’s best that my mouth doesn’t taint the sounds.”

Donovan slapped him on the arm. “You idiot,” she said, more annoyed than upset. “This is the best news I’ve heard from you in a while. So you love him? Fine – tell him. Tonight you’re a shining hero.”

He sat up and glared at her. “I know what I can do and how that makes me a freak to everyone. I’m under no illusions.” He saw the guilt in Donovan’s eyes and he enjoyed it. He knew she referred to him as ‘freak’ as well, and right now in felt good to take the frustration out on someone. “Yes sometimes I imagine walking somewhere under the moonlight with a man,” John, “on my arm and see him beam up at me, and I could forget who I am for a while because someone would love me, but then I’m called out on the street and the dream dies.” Sherlock could feel his cheeks grow hot and tears threatening the fall from his eyes.

His friend just sat there, agape. The only thing that could come out was, “Are you _crying_?”

Sherlock turned aside and closed his eyes shut to prevent any spillage. “No, never,” he said quickly. “I would never stoop to such pathetic shows of emotion.”

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder to comfort him. “Alright, not crying, but your still sad. Look, you should just tell him –”

“I love Adonis,” he snapped. Sherlock shrugged off Donovan’s hand. “I have Narcissus’s personality. How am I supposed to compete with his perfection?”

“But your wit, your courage – they can earn you love,” she comforted. “I saw John’s face tonight, during the duel. He was so pale, he looked so concerned for you. But when you won he was ecstatic. That skill and courage already got the boy. You’re half way there; now just tell him.”

“Why? So he can laugh at me?” Sherlock hissed. “The only thing that I’m afraid of is –”

A cough interrupted Sherlock’s train of thought. Both soldiers turned to see an elderly lady standing in the middle of the theater. He recognized her as John’s duenna Mrs. Hudson. What was she doing here? “Yes,” he asked.

“I have a message,” she began. “My lord says he’d be glad if his brave friend, as he puts it, would be good enough to meet him in private, as he puts it.” Sherlock saw a mischievous twinkle in her eye. He could hardly breathe. John wanted to meet him? “He has something to say to you, so he says come. He’s going to early mass tomorrow. Saint-Roch. He wants to know where he can see you afterwards.”

He was having difficulty making complete thoughts. It was a terrifying feel, but he would have to worry about that later because there were more important matters to attend to, so long as his brain worked. He need the perfect location, someplace quiet and welcoming. John liked that kind of place. He got it. “At the shop of Madame Molly Hooper, the pastry cook.”

“Where?” Mrs. Hudson asked.”

“At the shop of,” he sighed impatiently. “In the rue Saint – Honorè.”

“At seven o’clock,” the duenna smiled, “he’ll be there. Goodnight.” She waved goodbye and walked out the theater.

Donovan looked to him in joy and laughed merrily. Sherlock was still in shock. He was still processing the new information. “Me – he wants to see me.”

“Yes,” she cried.

“Whatever he wants, it means that I at least exist to him.”

“So now will you calm down,” Donovan asked.

Sherlock starred at her incredulously. “Calm? How can I be calm now?” His mind was now whirling, analyzing every possible outcome of tomorrow, how to best handle the situation. There was no time for calm. Calm was dull. “I have ten hearts beating within, each arm as muscular as twenty. My arteries thud with thunder, lightning coursing through my blood.” He gripped Donovan’s arms tight, relishing in her expression of joy and worry. “I need an army to beat me down.” He opened himself up to the ceiling. “You hear that? Bring on your giants!”

He clapped his hands together and made for the exit, but before he could reach it, the door burst open and a terrified Stamford ran inside. “Sherlock, please, you have to help me!”

Sherlock knew the drunk, and he tolerated him enough to assist in his problems occasionally. “What’s wrong?”

Stamford took a gasp of air, struggling to stand up right. The man was clearly intoxicated. That was not a good sign. “I got this warning,” he stammered. “A hundred men – because of a song I wrote – you hear me – one hundred men – coming to get me – armed, the lot of them – when I go through the Port de Nesle – my may home.” He grabbed at Sherlock, who immediately pushed him away. Stamford sank to his knees. “Let me stay in your place, please. One hundred men – going to get me.”

Sherlock, instead of looking disgusted or concerned, laughed and even jumped. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “First John and now this. Ah, it’s Christmas!”

Stamford and Donovan were baffled. “What?” he asked.

“A hundred men?” He pointed at Stamford. “Tonight you lay your head on your own pillow.”

“But –”

“I’ll turn down your bed myself, if I have to.” He looked down at the sniveling and utterly confused drunk. “Now get up. You’ll be the witness of what I intend to do, but please keep a safe distance. We don’t need you dying.”

“What?” Donovan screeched. “You mean you’re going to fight one hundred men?”

Sherlock gave her a wicked smile. “Certainly. Tonight less than a hundred would be far too few.” He brandished his sword, admiring its gleam in the candle-light.

“You’ll die!” she sputtered.

“Donovan,” he said smoothly, “I think tonight I’m far too lucky for that.” He turned to the door and pointed his toward at the exit. “To the Port de Nesle!” he cried, running into the city of Paris, his cape fluttering behind him, cloaking him in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was long. This is beta'd by me, so there's probably a ton of errors.


	2. Act 2 - The Poet's Cookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrano goes to the bakery of Molly Hooper to wait for his meeting with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay let me start off by say I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR NOT UPDATING FOR LIKE SIX MONTHS I AM SO SORRY. I was going through a rough patch and had horribly busy schedules and found zero inspiration or reasons to write. That's not really an excuse, but it's what I've got. I don't know when I'll be able to update this just because the chapters are so long and I really just need a good amount of time to sit down and right the damn thing, but I will aim for before spring break. Hope you like the new chapter.

Molly loved the early morning in her bakery. The smell of pastries straight out of the oven, the beauty of the first rays of light peeking through the window panes, the quiet hum of life starting out on the street. She sighed at the content life she lived with folding the dough for this morning’s batch of rolls.

Her husband walked into the shop front with a handful of papers - paper wraps for the food, no doubt. Molly smiled as she accepted the paper bags. She went in for a kiss, but Tom turned his head so she caught his cheek. He quickly stalked off to begin cleaning. She was slightly hurt by his rejection, but put that aside when she noticed the writing on the paper wraps. Molly shrieked in horror.

“Good God, this is poetry. How could you desecrate, dismember my friends’ verse? It’s blasphemy! Sacrilege! No, it’s worse!”

“What else are those scribbles fit for?” he questioned.

“But - to do _that_ to _those!_ ” she said. Tom just humphed and turn his back to her to continue cleaning. She unrolled the papers, trying desperately to salvage the poetry.

The door to the bakery burst open and Sherlock entered in a flourish. Molly’s heart gave a small ache. She always had a tiny crush on the man, but she knew he was fond of the other gender and had to let it go.

He had a distracted look in his eye, frantically searching the shop for something. His eyes laid on Molly, and her breath caught in her throat. The most terrifying experience one could have was being stared down by Sherlock de Bergerac. He walked straight up to her. “What time is it?”

It took Molly a second to comprehend what was asked, feeling stupider and stupider under the intense gaze. “Six o’clock,” she said.

Sherlock huffed and walked away. “Another hour.”

Molly then remembered the fight from the night before. “Congratulations!” she said returning to her work. “Such skill, such power. I saw it all.”

“Saw what?”

“Your duel last night.”

“She talked about it all last night,” Tom interjected. Sherlock turned his scowl to him. Tom returned it while sweeping.

“‘The poem ended, and I hit!’ Such a synthesis of steel and style -”

“The time?”

“Thirty seconds past six. The rhyme and rapier - it was wonderful. ‘The poem ended and I -’”

“Ah, shut up,” Tom said, giving Molly a small hit on the arm. His eyes then came to the gash on Sherlock’s hand that was currently trickling blood. “Where did you get that?”

The soldier covered his hand. “Only a scratch,” he said. “It’s nothing.” Tom raised his eyebrows, but for once said nothing. Sherlock turned to Molly. “Listen, I have an appointment here, soon. Leave us alone, will you?”

“I can’t. I have customers.” Sherlock looked around the empty room. “Soon.” He gave her the puppy dog pout, and, try as she might, Molly could not resist that look. Hell, she couldn’t resist Sherlock in general. “Fine,” she said.

“Brilliant!” he said. “The time?”

“Six and ninety seconds.”

Sherlock nodded and sat down at one of the shop’s tables. He pulled out a quill, bottle of ink, and what appeared to be a half-finished letter. He began to work on the letter, and for a few moments the shop had a calm pass over it. This was soon broken by the arrival of a musketeer who went straight up to Tom.

“Morning.”

Sherlock stared at the man in disgust. “What’s that?”

“A friend of my husband,” said Molly. “Very fierce - so he tells me.”

Sherlock turned back to his work. “Gay,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

Sherlock looked at her with an almost apologetic look, or as close as Sherlock could get to one. “Nothing. The time?”

“Two minutes past.” She looked at her husband in distress. He was actively ignoring her, completely absorbed in the musketeer.

“Molly, how about you get back to baking. You’re sure to have a sea of customers today.”

She sighed, but resigned with a nod, going back to her work.

 

-o0o-

 

Sherlock glared at the couple. Molly was a sweet girl. Ignorant: yes. Boring: of course - most everyone was. But she was kind and caring, and no idiot was going to get away with breaking her heart without Sherlock punishing him. He waited until Molly left to go into the back room to make his move.

“Sir, a word.”

Tom rolled his eyes and reluctantly went to speak to Sherlock. “What is it?”

“Tell me, is he laying siege, this musketeer?”

Tom never looked so scandalized. “What? No. Nobody goes to far with me. All I do is shoot them down with my eyes.”

“Indeed?” Sherlock scoffed. “Those two blue conquerors seem strangely conquered to me. They’re showing their white flags.”

“Now you look here -”

Sherlock grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. “Your generous-hearted wife happens to be a friend of mine. And I will not let you ridicule her.”

“If you think that -”

“I do.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared down at the pathetic man. He pushed him aside and marched up the the musketeer. “A word to the wise: learn not to touch other people’s property.” Sherlock turned away from the man, satisfied, and returned to his work.

At that moment Molly returned to find two very shocked men gaping at Sherlock. Tom humphed, grabbing the musketeer’s hand, and pushed past Molly to enter the back rooms. She gave him a questioning look, but he dismissed it. Tom was cheating on her and there was no way around it. Hopefully the talk he just had with the scum would push the reveal sooner so the secrecy wouldn’t drag on under her nose. He just hoped that she would get over it soon, for her sake.

He shuddered at his display of sentiment. What was getting into him?

He looked out the window to see the shapes of a man and elderly woman coming towards the bakery: John and Mrs. Hudson. “Molly,” he said pointing to the window. She looked out and understood. She picked up a basket with some coins and headed for the door and the couple entered.

“Oh, good morning John, madame.”

“Hello Molly,” said John with a warm smile. “Where are you off to?”

Oh, just went to buy some supplies for the shop. Sherlock’s here watching it for me while I’m out.” Sherlock saw John look over to him while he hastily finished the letter and shoved it in a pocket.

“I see. I hope to see you soon.” Molly made a quick bow and rushed out of the shop.

John walked over to sherlock and gave a small, friendly hug. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into the touch. This was a surprise - he usually hated physical contact. He took a second to marvel at John. The two of them were so different. Sherlock was tall and dark, while John was short with golden hair. John’s eyes shown a deep blue that seemed brown from a distance; the dark to his own pale eyes. Sherlock loved form-fitting clothing made of the finest fabrics. John, despite his wealth, always preferred more durable clothing that was bit too big, but perfect on him. He had always marveled at John’s kindness and ability to befriend all, for he knew his own shortcomings with friendship. But despite the differences, he and John had remanded the closest of friends since their childhood days.

His thoughts were interrupted by a cough. The two men looked over to Mrs. Hudson, who was smiling mischievously at them. “Well, I think I’ll just leave you two to talk. I be outside if you need me.” With that, she grabbed a handful of tarts from the counter and headed out of the shop.

John gave a small sigh, but he was smiling. Sherlock couldn’t help but return the gesture; John was the only person Sherlock smiled for. “I am now graced with your presence so you can tell me - what, exactly?”

John sat them down at one of the tables. “First I want thank you for last night. That terror you - punctured, well it saved me from trouble.”

“What had happened?”

“Moriarty proposed that I should marry him.”

“A ridiculous disguise for himself. Well, that’s one bad chapter closed. I fought not for my own honor but yours.”

John smiled at him, and the two sat in companionable  silence. Sherlock’s mind was still whirling, though. He wished John would just get to the big announcement. John looked up at him. “Do you remember when we were children together playing in the park, by the lake?”

“How could I forget our summers in Bergerac?” And it was true. It seemed only yesterday that the two were boys playing in the fields of southern France, not a care in the world. When they only had time for eachother. Before they had to grow up.

“When your swords were bulrushes.”

“And the golden hair of our dolls were cornsilk.”

“Beanfields in the air, green plums and perpetual playtime.”

“Puppies and mulberries. Heavens, how I’m taken back.”

“To when my wish was always your command,” John smirked.

“Captain John Watson.” Sherlock paused. “You used to be Hamish then.”

“Was I handsome?” John asked earnestly.

Sherlock gulped, not sure how to reply. “You never were exactly plain.” John giggled, a high breathy sound, and Sherlock felt his heart beat out of his chest. If only he could make John laugh every day.

“I remember - you’d climb a tree and hurt your hand and come running to me,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “And then I be your doctor, and all gruff and grown-up I’d say: ‘How on Earth did you manage to -’”

Sherlock saw John stop and look down at his cut up hand. A blush spread to his face. “How on Earth?” John began. “Let me see it. Even now, at your age.”

“A bit of ruff play with some of the big boys down by the Porte de Nesle,” he said.

“Give it to me.” John held out his hand, exasperated, waiting for Sherlock to let him help. The two stared at each other until he begrudgingly conceded. “Yes, Doctor,” Sherlock sighed. John dipped his handkerchief in some wine left out and used it to blot Sherlock’s cut, the touch stinging.

“Playing indeed,” John huffed. “Tell me - how many of these big boys were there?”

“Oh, about about a hundred,” Sherlock said, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

“About a hundred,” John repeated. The words then sunk in. “ _A hundred_! Out with your story. Come now.”

“Out with yours - if it _is_ a story, if you dare to tell it” he shot back.

John smiled and a blush appeared on his cheeks. “I do dare,” he said. “I’m in love with someone.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“With someone who doesn’t know, doesn’t suspect.”

“Ah.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Ah.”

“But they will know soon.”

“Ah.”

“They love me too, but so far from a distance, timidly, too scared to speak.”

“Ah.”

“Can you say nothing but ‘Ah’?”

“Aahh,” Sherlock said, unsure of what else there was to say.

John rolled his eyes. He patted the cut again. “Your hand - how hot it is, feverish even.” He smiled, his thoughts changing. “But I see love trembling on their lips.”

“Ah.”

“They’re a soldier, and, more than that, in your regiment.”

“Ah.”

“More than that, even, in your company.”

“Ah.”

John sighed. “And such intelligence. Young, brave, proud - she’s beautiful.”

“ _She!_ ” Sherlock snatched his hand away. No, no, no, this could not be happening. John was supposed to be in love with him, not some girl. That’s why they were here! How could he have read the signs wrong? That wasn’t him; he was always right.  Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. No, he was not crying.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he lied. “Just this fool of a scratch I got from the big boys.” He tried to smile, but he was sure it came out as a grimace.

“Anyway, I love her. The only problem is that I’ve only seen her in the theatre.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Never met?”

“Only with our eyes.”

He snorted in disgust. “What’s her name?”

“Baroness Mary Morstan de Neuvillette.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “She’s not in the guards.”

John smirked. “Oh yes she is, as from today, under Captain Gregory Lestrade.”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation and grabbed John’s hands. “John - think. You who love fine words, eloquence, elegance. She may be a fool, a savage -”

“Oh, but her eyes shine like a greek goddesses.”

“There’s a chance that’s the only thing that’s bright,” he muttered, crossing his arms to his chest.

“My instincts tell me otherwise,” John retaliated.

“Your instincts often tell the biggest lies. Supposes she’s a boar, a bore - what will you do?”

“Well, then, I suppose I shall have to die,” he said plainly.

Sherlock couldn’t believe this. He never thought John could be this boring. He snapped at John. “And so - you brought me here to tell me this. Why?”

John gave him a worried look. “Yesterday someone said that all your company are Gascons.”

“Yes all Gascons.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Ah, I see. It’s a matter of our fiery Gascon pride to rip up any fresh meat attempting to join.”

“I’m scared for her.”

“Not without cause,” he said through gritted teeth.

John reached out and turned Sherlock towards him. “But you, who dared so much last night - that brute, those brutes - everyone is so scared of you. I thought -”

“Your Mary will not be thrown to the lions,” he said shrugging away John’s hand.

He gave Sherlock a pleading look. “For our friendship’s sake you’ll protect her? Defend her? You’ll make her your friend?”

“There’s nothing finer than friendship.”

“Promise.”

To anyone else he would have just said ‘no,’ but he couldn’t do that to John. Sherlock still loved him. “I promise.”

“Don’t let anyone fight duels with her.”

“God forbid,” he said sarcastically.

“Oh Sherlock, I love you. Tell me everything about last night some time, won’t you?” The sound of Ms. Hudson calling for John carried into the room. The doctor began to gather his belongings. “Now I have to go. Oh, how I love you. Oh, and tell her to write.”

“Yes, yes,” he answered quietly.

“Don’t forget now.” John rose up and quickly kissed sherlock on the cheek. The soldier stared at him in baffled silence. John gave a small smile. “Just think - a hundred men against my boy of the bulrush sword. Ah, when there’s time you must tell me.” John finally noticed the confused look, frowning. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock answered quickly.

John smiled and moved towards the door. “Tell her to write. You and a hundred men. Such courage.” And with that he was gone.

 

-o0o-

 

Sherlock stood in saddened shock, clutching at the spot where John kissed him. It only hurt; John’s words only hurt. They were lies. John had no real love for him and he couldn’t bare it. He sunk into a chair, defeated, his hands tousling his hair in frustration.

“May I come in?” a voice asked from the doorway behind him.

“Yes, yes, I know you love me!” he snapped at who he presumed was John. He only realized his mistake when the voice behind him responded with an “eh?” that sounded nothing like John. He turned to see Lestrade standing in the doorway, confused. “Captain Lestrade.”

“We’ve heard the story, but we want it from you. There are thirty cadets of the Guards all ready to get you drunk in the Tavern. Come on,” he called with an easy grin.

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock said with detestation.

But it was too late. Cadets began storming the shop, loud and rambunctious and overall uncultured. Molly was not far behind, with a warm smile on her face and passing out treats. Donovan came rushing in, happy as well.

“Sherlock,” she cried, “the whole of Paris is here looking for you.”

“I trust _you_ didn’t say where they could find me.”

“I did,” she smirked. Sherlock was about to retaliate when Moriarty and his entourage came striding in.

One of his men came forward. “Monsieur Moriarty, with a message from the Marshall -”

He was cut off by a forceful shove from Moriarty. “Who wishes to convey his necessarily impartial felicitations on your flamboyant bravery.”

“I respect his judgement,” Sherlock said cooly.

“He was incredulous, until the testimony of we gentlemen convinced him.” Moriarty gave him a snake-like smile. “After all, we saw everything.”

Donovan gave Sherlock a strange look. “What’s the matter,” she whispered.

“Quiet, Donovan.”

“You look as though you’re suffering. What did he -”

“No,” he snapped quietly.

“This incident,” Moriarty said, snapping Sherlock’s attention from Donovan, “at the the Porte de Nesle is, I hear, one of many; notorious, glorious, I’m told it’s not easy to tell. Your one of these wild Gascons?”

Sherlock smirked. “I consult for them.”

Moriarty gave a sly smile. “Those these are the infamous-”

Lestrade cut off the Comte of with a “Sherlock, present them.”

The cadets began beating the tables to make a marching beat as sherlock hopped up on the counter for his poem.

_These the Gascony Cadets -_

_Captain Lestrade is their chief -_

_Braggers of brags, layers of bets,_

_These are the Gascony Cadets._

_Barons who scorn mere baronets,_

_Their lines are long and tempers brief -_

_They’re lithe as cats or marmosets,_

_But never cherish the belief_

_They can be stroked like household pets_

_Or fed on what a lap dog gets._

_They scorn the scented handkerchief,_

_They dance no jigs or minutes._

_They cook their enemies on brochettes,_

_With blood as their aperitif._

_Captain Lestrade there is the chief_

_Of these - the Gascony Cadets!_

Cheers roared from the soldiers around him as sherlock gracefully lept off the counter, leaving Moriarty with a look that only could be described as mild impressedness plastered on his face. “It’s fashionable for a gentleman’s retinue to contain a poet. How would you like to join mine?”

“I don’t like retinues,” Sherlock scoffed.

Moriarty gave him a warning look. “You are proud, sir - dangerously so.”

Sherlock rose himself to his full six feet of height. “Dangerous to myself?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “I think not, my lord. To others - well...”

The battle was cut off by a cadet, Gregson maybe, running into the shop, carrying what appeared to be hats, torn and battered with the panaches covered in blood. “Sherlock! Sherlock! Look what we found on the street this morning: feathers from the fowl you put to flight.”

Lestrade laugh. He picked one from the pile and twirled it around his hand. “Nicely mounted, very neat, ready for the trophy room.”

“He’ll not be too pleased with himself today, the scoundrel who hired the hirelings at the Porte,” said Gregson. “Does anyone know who it was?”

“Yes, I was the scoundrel.” All eyes turned to Moriarty, appearing completely bored with the present subject. “I don’t use my own teeth for biting insolent poets. I leave it to hirelings to chew them up.”

Sherlock was amazed with this man. He himself enjoyed a good murder tale or puzzle, nor was he shy from a fight and self defense. But never would be be so unaffected by the reveal of personal plans of attempted murder. It was inhuman.

“Would would you like us to do with these?” Gregson asked, referring to the hats.

Sherlock grabbed a few and forcefully shoved them into Moriarty’s hands. “Monsieur could take them and return them to his friends.”

Moriarty stood there in the middle of the room, fuming and looking ready to burst. He sighed and spoke with the utmost pleasant and calm tone. “Monsieur, have you read Don Quixote?”

Sherlock snorted. “Read it? I’ve practically lived it.”

“Ponder on the windmill chapter.”

“Ninety-one,” he answered, sitting defiantly on the counter.

“If you fight with windmills, they’ll swing their heavy spars and spin you down to the mud.”

“Or up to the stars.”

 

-o0o-

 

A heavy silence passed between them. Moriarty, unable to win this battle, exited with a huff, his entourage following shiftly. The cadets gave a cheer, celebrating the leave of the infuriating lord. Wine was passed as the cadets began to eat, filling the space. Sherlock signed an exaggerated salute as Donovan pulled to the side with a harsh pull.

“You’ve done it again,” she warned.

“Stop growling,” sherlock said, wavering her away with a dismissal.

“No,” she said, stopping him. “ To be quite accurate, when a man has achieved an unprecedented ecstasy of excess, you _can’t_ say he’s done it again.”

“I did it on principle,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Excess, you see, is not excessive when it’s been conceived on principle. My success is achieved only by excess.”

Donovan groaned. “If only you’d stop trying to be the three musketeers and Don Christ Quixote all rolled up into one, you’d make your way to the top.”

Sherlock spun on her. “Up to the top?” He narrowed his eyes. “What would you have me do? Seek out a powerful protector, pursue a potent patron? Cling like a leeching vine to a tree? Crawl my way up? Fawn, whine for all that success? Play the buffoon, desperate to engender a smirk on a refrigerated jowl? Is it best I should think it best to make a visit to stuffy salons than make a poem? Seek condescension, favor, influence, introductions?” He gave a short, hollow laugh. “No thank you. But to go free of the filthy world, blessed with a voice of vibrating virility, an eye equipped for looking at things as they really are, cocking my hat where I please, at a word, at a deed, at a yes or no, fighting or writing: this is the true life. So I go along any road, careless of the glory, indifferent to the boon or bane of fortune, without hope, without fear, with spirit tough, indifferent, alone.”

Donovan just shook her head. “Alone: yes. Tough: yes. Indifferent: no. An indifferent man, God knows, doesn’t go around making enemies. This is -”

“Mad?” he finished. “Call it my foible. To displease is my chief pleasure. I love hatred. He’s my best friend who admits he’s my worst foe. You’ve no idea how bracing it is to go up against a volley of venom. Hate is not a prison. It is the god of the day, a heat that disinfects my soul, an archangelica aureole.”

“I understand, Sherlock,” she sighed. “Be bitter and proud before your enemies or indifferent masses.” She looked into his eyes. “But tell _me_ that he doesn’t-”

“Shhh,” he cut her off, ready to end the talk. Sherlock turned and noticed a new comer to the bakery: a short woman with blonde hair and equipped with training garments and a sword. She seemed to be the subject of mockery by the other cadets. Wealthy, well educated, but not particularly bright, strong fighter, woman of morals, but prone to lying to get what she wants. Interesting. Sherlock grabbed Lestrade. “Who is that woman there?”

“The new recruit who came this morning,” he answered.

Sherlock’s head to the direction of the woman. It couldn’t be. “This morning?”

“This morning.”

“This morning?”

Lestrade sighed. “Her name is Mary Morstan de Neuvi-”

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock cut him off. So this was the woman John had fallen in love with. It pained his heart to see her so close. Part of him wanted to kill her right on the spot - there were sixteen ways he could accomplish it without even being caught - but he quickly expelled this ideas. She made John happy, so she was worth keeping. Helping even.

Before he knew if, Sherlock was shoving everyone out of the bakery; the cadets protest could be heard down the street. After locking the doors, the only ones left were himself and Mary.

 

-o0o-

 

Mary, for her part, was ready for a duel. She had her hand on her sword, prepared to draw and fight. Her eyes never left Sherlock. That was good.

“Come near me and I’ll rip out that brain you call a prize and feed it to the dogs,” she threatened. When he refused to move closer she taunted him. “What? Are you too afraid to fight? I thought all Gascons cooked their enemies, or are you just a coward?”

She had her insults down. He was beginning to like this girl. “Come into my arms,” he said with his signature smirk, his arms raised for an embrace.

Mary stared at him in bafflement. “Monsieur?”

“You have courage. I like courage.” He went up to her to give a pat on the back; Mary moved out of his reach.

“I don’t think I quite -”

“I’m his friend,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Whose friend?”

“His.”

“I don’t think I quite -”

“His.” Mary continued to stare blankly at him. “His. _His._ ”

Something seemed to click inside the soldier. “Oh my god, his friend?” Sherlock gave a small nod. “And he’s...”

“Told me everything, yes,” Sherlock answered, the look of pain in his eyes only recognizable if you were looking for it.

“He loves me?”

“Perhaps.”

Mary ran up to embrace him, shocking the soldier who had not meant this to actually happen. He hated being touched by anyone, but John. “Oh, I’m overjoyed to make your acquaintance.”

“This is a change of heart,” he said sarcastically.

“Forgive please,” she said.

“You’re beautiful, no doubt about that,” Sherlock said, pushing her away.

“Oh, if only you knew how much I admire you, sir.”

Sherlock knew she was lying through her teeth, never had seen him before today, but let it pass. “John expects a letter from you - tonight.”

Mary collapsed into a chair with a groan. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I ruin everything i write.”

“ _How?_ ”

“Because I’m such a damned fool.”

“Obviously,” he muttered.

“What?” Mary questioned with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing,” he said. He didn’t want to force her away. He needed her to make John happy. “The way you insulted me was not foolish.”

Mary’s cheeks began to turn bright red. “Oh, I can find the the words when mounting an attack; call it military wit. But I don’t know the things to say, I mean, when it comes to a man. I become paralyzed, tongue-tied, speechless, stupid-”

“That’s enough,” Sherlock held up his hand to stop her. She seemed worse than he feared. John was going to hate her if she opened her mouth. How was he going to make this work?

“If only I had your wit, your elegance..”

This gave Sherlock a plan; a horrible, ridiculous plan that was just insane and reckless enough to work. He grabbed Mary by her shoulders in his excitement.“Well, why not borrow it? And in return I borrow your kind soul. There’s promising algebra here: you plus I equals one hero of the story books.”

She stared at him incredulously. “I don’t think I quite -”

But Sherlock continued on. “So I don’t see why I shouldn’t give you words to woo him with.”

Mary pulled away from him. “You frighten me.”

“What scares you is the thought of the time when he and you are alone and you cool down his heart with breath unwarmed by words.” The look on Mary’s face said it all: she loved him, but was too afraid to speak and lose his affections. “Well, have no fear: my words will be with you, glued to your lips. What do you say?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you do this for me?”

Sherlock stood stock still, unable to move. Why was he doing this? He couldn’t say to make John happy. She would never believe that; too many questions would be asked. And she couldn’t know he loved John as well. “Simple: it’s pure art. The finest lines of the dramatist,” he gestured to himself, “are dead without the actors partnership,” he pointed at Mary. “One whole is made is made from our two halves - your lips, my words.”

Mary stared at him, and Sherlock knew she didn’t believe him entirely, but she would drop the subject. “Well, I’m grateful. We have to start at once.”

He pulled out the letter that was supposed to be from him, all of his heart’s desires on one page, and handed over to Mary. “Here it is, complete except for the address.” Mary gripped the paper as she read the first few lines. She looked up and gave a questioning look, asking why he had this. “It will serve: an exercise in poetic wit. Poets who have no companion but their muse will often do this. I could write you one anytime. What you must do is to use to a solid end these airy quotes.”

Mary gave him a warm smile and embraced him again. “My, my -”

“Friend?” Sherlock answered, letting her hold him. John would be happy, and so he would be content in his loneliness.

Neither heard the doors to the back room open, Tom and the musketeer peering out. The soldier gave a laugh, sauntering over to sherlock as the two broke away.

“So the freak does have a heart. Tell me, what did she have to do to melt it?”

Sherlock glowered. “Be a faithful lover.”

 

-o0o-

 

Molly came back into the shop just in time to see Sherlock punch the musketeer in the jaw and storm out. Tom instantly went to comfort the man and sooth his wound, which was forming a small stream of blood down his left cheek. She was knocked aside by a rushed looking Baroness Mary Morstan, running after Sherlock and crying “His address! You didn’t give me his address!”

What had happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this is unbeta'd so there are probably a million errors.


	3. Act 2 - John's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As war looms over the cadets and Moriarty looms over John, Mary, against Sherlock's advice, tries to verbally woe John on her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I got it up before Easter, so that's a win. I'm working on two shows right now so once again the schedule is a bit AWOL, but by mid June it should be up.
> 
> Once again this is unbeta'd, so there are probably many errors. I apologize in advance.

The garden of John’s manor was always a favorite place of Mrs. Hudson. The stone wall, laced with ivy and jasmine blocked out the busy Paris streets. Lilacs, roses, tulips were arranged in long lines that crisscross the grassy carpet. A tall tree - she was never quite able to recall which species - rose up out of the shrubs to tower over the two story home, almost using the building as a crutch in its old age.

Yes, Mrs. Hudson usually loved to just sit on one of the benches and relax in the quiet peace of the lawn. Today, however, she was forced comfort a sobbing Molly, rubbing her back and wiping stray tears from her face.

“Ran away,” the girl choked out. “Absconded, just like that with that musketeer, leaving me ruined. Desolate!” Molly fidgeted with her dress. “I was ready to finish things off,” she spoke in a near whisper. “Take that final step, when John came along and offered me a position: Steward.” She spat the last word out like food gone bad. Mrs. Hudson understood: Molly was a baker, not a marshal.

“How on Earth did you manage to get yourself into this condition?” the elder wondered.

Molly sighed. “Apparently Tom likes a man in uniform. As for me, well, poets are my passion...” Mrs. Hudson nodded as Molly trailed off. She saw past Molly’s statement: Sherlock was her passion. But he and John were smitten, whether John would admit it or not. She saw how the two acted: they were in love.

The light was fading; she and John had to get going to the lecture he insisted on attending. She turned to the house. “Monsieur, are you ready? We’re going to be late,” she called into the house. An exasperated reply of “I’m coming” came back. The duenna returned her attention to Molly, pushing her into a standing position. “You’d better get on with your stewarding.” The young lady nodded and slowly trudged into the house, her head hanging low on her slumping shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson only had a moment of peace before a deep baritone voice carried a song into the garden.

_I praise the lilies of your skin,_

_But only from afar._

_I long to venture in_

_To where your roses are._

_And sipping as the bee mouth sips,_

_Adore them with my lips._

Monsieur de Bergerac appeared, striking as ever. He strolled up to Mrs. Hudson, his face unreadable. “Good day, Madame. Is John in?”

“Sherlock,” a voice called from behind. The man turned to see John coming out of the house to embrace him. The two melted into each other, and it warmed Mrs. Hudson’s heart. Why couldn’t John admit he was happiest with Sherlock? But now the hug had gone on too long to be friendly, and staying any longer would be impolite and awkward. “I’ll go guard the gate,” she said with a cheeky grin. John pull away immediately, his face bright red. She laughed quietly as she made her way past them. When would they learn?

-o0o-

John was always overjoyed when Sherlock came; he never seemed to see enough of his long time friend. But something was off. After the hug Sherlock became stiff, cold, not at all like the man only John would see: warm and joking and loving to the very end. The soldier gave a small cough.

“As usual,” he began, “I’ve come to see if our flawless friend’s maintaining her sublime height of flight.”

Sherlock drew out ‘flawless’ in a sarcastic drawl, but that only made John laugh. “Oh my Mary, she is beautiful, brilliant - I love her desperately.”

A flicker of dismay darkened Sherlock’s face when John praised Mary. “Brilliant?” he challenged.

“More brilliant than even you,” John countered.

Sherlock seceded with an “I agree” and flashed a devilish grin.

The doctor gave a soft sigh. “I’ve never in my life known anyone who could say those little things so beautifully that are nothing and yet, everything. She says such things-”

“Really,” Sherlock interrupted, eyebrows arched in critical disbelief.

John gave a humph. “You think, as most men think, that it is impossible for a woman to be both bright and beautiful.”

“Talks well, does she, of love and so forth,” Sherlock deflected. John took that as a victory.

He smiled at the thought of the beautiful letters he was now receiving daily. “Talk is so inadequate. It’s art, it’s eloquence. Listen: ‘The more you take my heart, the more heart I have left, dear heart, for loving you the more.’ And then: ‘This ache of emptiness, however, bids me yearn to seek your heart to return.’” John’s eyes lit up at the poetry written just for him. No one had ever done such a beautifully sweet act before. Sherlock, however, just appeared annoyed.

“First too much and then too little. She’d rhapsodize better if she’d try to learn to make her mind up. How much heart does she need?”

John just smirked at his friend. “Now you’re just teasing me. Jealousy, that’s what it is.”

“Jealous? I?” A strange expression crossed Sherlock’s face. If John didn’t know any better he would have said it was fear.

“Yes, of her talent. Listen to this: ‘Ah, in your presence, such confusion grips my heart that it grows wordless as a kiss. If kisses could but wing in winged words, Then you could read my letter with your lips.’”

“Not bad; a bit overwritten-”

“Aah,” John groaned, “but listen to this-”

“You know them all by heart?” he asked very quietly.

“All of them.” John smiled, and Sherlock returned it. But it wasn’t a mutual one of friendship; this was a quiet, private moment of joy.

Sherlock gave a strange look, eyes down cast and mouth open ready to speak, when Mrs. Hudson came bursting through the gate in a panic. “John - Monsieur Moriarty is here. Quick, Monsieur Holmes, he may may put two and two together if he sees you here.” John had nearly forgotten the bitter rivalry Moriarty had with Sherlock. The feud began as a simple refusal on his friend’s part to comply to the demands Moriarty had for Paris. But it had escalated to an all out war of sorts, and John, with the Comte as his patron and guardian of sorts - completely by his father’s wishes and not his own - was forced into the middle of the battle. Having Moriarty discover he was close to his mortal enemy would spell doom for both of them.

Sherlock made a quick bow and was ushered inside by Mrs. Hudson, not a moment before Moriarty came strolling into the garden. The pompous git walked the grounds with the full force of a will to power, completely taking the land that belonged to John and claiming ownership with his presence. It was despicable.

The man bowed low, flashing John a slow smile; he stood to give a half-hearted returning gesture. “Monsieur, I was just leaving,” he said making his way past Moriarty at the quickest pace possible that would still be accepted as polite.

Moriarty placed a firm hand on his chest, stopping John in his tracks. “Alas, I too am leaving. For the war.”

“Oh,” John replied, his voice dripping with his best imitation of concern.

“This very evening,” Moriarty continued. “We’re ordered to besiege Arras.” His eyes searched for John, who forced himself to return the look. He would not be intimidated by the detestable lord. “Tell me, does my leaving you leave you as cold as it seems to do?”

“No.”

“I find that this present prospect of leaving you leaves me quite desolate.” Moriarty’s hands began to roam down John’s sides. He flinched away from the Comte’s grasp, backing away from his reach. Moriarty’s brow seemed to furrow, but it was so quickly replaced with his usual political mask John couldn’t confirm or deny it. “Did you know you know I’d been promoted to colonel?”

“Oh? Bravo,” he said flatly.

“Yes, colonel of the Guards.”

John’s blood ran cold, and the sight of a faint grin of victory on Moriarty’s face terrified him. “The Guards?”

“The Guards: the regiment of that de Bergerac. I may, with luck, get some of my own back.”

“Ordered to Arras?”

“Under my command.”

John couldn’t feel his heart beat, couldn’t feel his blood pump at all. Every muscle seemed to be locked into place. He clenched his suddenly clammy hands as his breath began to speed up erratically on it’s own accord. Images of Sherlock and Mary lying dead in a field flooded his mind. Blood splatters covering their skin, brains blown out and organs exposed, their faces contorted in grotesque displays of pain and horror. Moriarty’s voice floated by him, but he could not make out any words. “I can’t let you die,” John whispered.

“You’ve never spoken like this before, now, when I have to leave you,” Moriarty’s words came rushing to him. He had to protect his love. There was only one way to. Luckily, he knew Moriarty and he knew Sherlock. He straightened his spine and blinked away the tears he didn’t know had formed. He let in a deep, silent breath and turned to face a Moriarty who looked possessively in love.

“You said, just then, something about revenge. Sherlock?” he asked in the calmest voice he could muster.

“Yes.” Moriarty narrowed his eyes. “Are you for him?”

“Very much against,” John said with feigned hatred, crossing his arms for emphasis. “I see him as little as I can.”

The colonel gave a hollow laugh. “I see him too much. Lately he’s keeping company with this new woman - Morrison or Morstan or something-”

“To return to matter at hand,” he interrupted, unwilling to be distracted by Mary while he was negotiating her life. “Tell me what you propose for Sherlock. Send him into the thick of the fighting?” John gave a short laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “He’ll love that.” John turned from Moriarty and began to walk to the nearby fountain. “I know what I’d do,” he cast out to the Comte.

“What?”

He took the bait.

“Leave him here, with his precious cadets, kicking his heels. That ought to make him sick, while the rest of the regiment goes off and gets medals and wounds and things. I know him. If you want to strike him, strike at his self esteem. The cadets will chew their nails, but Sherlock will eat out his heart and you’ll have your revenge.”

He didn’t hear Moriarty come up behind him, but John suddenly felt a pair of hands clamp down on his shoulders in a gesture of faux tenderness. “You love me, then - a little.” Moriarty’s lips brushed John’s ear. A shiver of fear and discomfort traveled throughout his body. “When you make my enemies your enemies I see that as a sign of love-”

John turned on him, backing out of his grip. “It could be a sign, of a sort...” he said weakly. He was sure Moriarty wouldn’t buy it.

But the colonel reached in his bag and removed a stack of documents. He searched through them. “These are the orders for the companies: signed, sealed, not yet delivered.” He pulled out one with a devilish smirk. “This is for the guards.” He slipped it into his breast pocket. “I keep it here. So much for you, Sherlock.” He turned his intense gaze on the doctor. “You like to play your games, John.”

“Sometimes,” he muttered with apprehension.

Moriarty gave a small sigh as he returned the documents to the bag. “Sometimes I say to myself that you and I are two of a kind. But always I’m mad about you. And now, to find love love within you - when I have to go - intolerable.” Moriarty caught his eye. He grasped his hands, holding him down with his lustful gaze. “Listen. Half a mile or so from here, in the rue d’Orleans, lies the order of the Capuchins. The regiment leaves for the siege tonight, but without me. One more day won’t make a difference. I will hide there and later on tonight come to you masked.”

The fear rushed upon John. The git had to leave. “But ... honor,” he stuttered out. 'Spies will be watching. If anyone should find out-”

“Please.”

“The war, your duty, your family name,” he said  frantically.

“I’ve a more urgent duty, a greater good: to contrive the voluntary surrender of-” he stepped into John’s personal space. “Say yes. Say it now.”

“No.”

Moriarty leaned down and kissed John’s neck. He reflectively squirmed and tried to move away, but found he was held in place. “Say it,” Moriarty mumbled against his skin. “Whisper it.”

John broke free of the man’s grasp and pushed him away. “My duty is to make you do yours. But-”

“Bless you for that butt.”

John gave a shiver of disgust and backed away, arms up in defense. “Go, before I make you go,” he commanded in his officer voice, something he hadn’t used in years. Hopefully it was intimidating. “I must order you to be my hero.”

Moriarty gave a twisted, but amused smile. “So you can love?”

“When I tremble for one’s safety, I may talk of love,” John muttered.

“And yet you say I must go?” Moriarty took a step forward and John took a step back

“Yes,” he said quickly. “In the name of love, my dear, dear friend.” John nearly choked on his last words.

The colonel gave a sigh of resignation. “I go then. But this adieu means not an end but a beginning. Later, then. Later, John.”

Moriarty grabbed his hand to kiss it. He gave one last look that could only be describe as possessive and exited the garden. John was finally allowed to breathe. He sat down in disgust at himself: for playing his game, for the way he let him touch him, for the pain he was going to cause Sherlock. The man would be furious if he found out John stopped him from going to war.

His thoughts were broken by the sound of squealing laughter coming from the gate. “My dear, _dear_ friend,” Mrs. Hudson mocked.

John gave her an unamused, pointed look. “Say nothing about what I did just then,” he threatened.

“Yes, yes,” she waved him away.

“Sherlock,” John called out to the man, hidden somewhere in the house. “Mrs. Hudson and I are off to the lecture. Stay if you like.” He turned to his Duenna. “We should leave.” The two hurried out of the gate, down the path winding down the hill, to the heart of Paris, John leaving his worries about Moriarty as he went to enjoy the night.

-o0o-

Mary found herself wandering the paths of Paris, desperately trying to find John's manor. Sherlock's directions were at best vague and at worst insulting to her intelligence. She had been stumbling through the city for an hour now. She finally came upon a towering gate on the hill side. It had to be John's.

"Sherlock!" she called, hoping their plan was already in action and the man was already in the manor. Mary was going to learn a poem from Sherlock and recite it to John when he returned from the lecture. Sherlock would, naturally, be close by in the case of disaster. He thought the scheme was utter perfection, but she was now having doubts about this and their entire arrangement. She was nothing more than Sherlock's puppet, and she was no longer going to stand for that.

After a few quick moments the soldier came running to the gate. "Come and have your lines thrown at you," he spoke as he opened the gate just wide enough for Mary to slip through. He was speaking at such a rapid pace she could hardly keep up with him. "I have your theme: love, of course. All you have to do is get your memory ready. This is your best chance yet to cover yourself in genius. We don't have much time." Sherlock gestured as to move into the garden, but Mary was rooted to the spot. He gave an exasperated glare and forcefully grabbed her by the arm. "Come on, try to look intelligent."

"No!" she said, recoiling from his touch.

Sherlock gave a condescending look. "Please, there's no harm in trying to look intelli-" Sherlock slowed as realization dawned on his face. "Oh."

"That's right," Mary said. "I'm tired: tired of borrowing your lines, your letters, saying what you tell me to say, dithering with stage fright." She sat down on a nearby bench. "Oh, sure, it was fun at first; it was like playing a game of sorts." She gave a wide smile. "But tonight, I'm past all fear. Tonight I feel inspired with my own ...inspiration. I no longer doubt that he loves me. My own words can crash out!"

Sherlock stared at her disdainfully. "Limp out. Trickle out."

"No, I'm not entirely stupid," she retaliated. "Thanks to you, I've learned a lot."

"As I see," he quipped with a sardonic air.

"And, though I can't yet make the verbal summits. I know enough to take, by God, a man in my arms.”

It was just then the sound of a man and woman walking up the path was heard. Mary and Sherlock turned to see John and his Duenna walking up the path. A gripping fear struck Mary; she was not ready for this.

“Don’t leave me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock only gave her a smug grin, calling “you’re on your own tonight, Mademoiselle; goodnight and good luck,” as he made his way through out of the garden through a back gate.

She was about to call out to Sherlock, to run after him when she heard the familiar cry of “Mary,” and turned to see John dismissing his Duenna as he rushed towards her. Gripping her hands he laughed quietly, almost out of shock and joy. “You came,” he said. “Now the brightest poet in all of France has come to sweeten my air.” Mary felt her cheeks grow hot. John was too good for her. He gently lead her to a stone bench near them. “We’re alone. Talk. I’ll listen.”

It took her a moment to realize he wanted her to recite a poem. Her stomach dropped and she could feel her hands becoming slick in John’s. She took a shaky breath and said the first thing that came to her mind.

“I love you.”

He gave a wide smile in response. “Embroider your theme, weave gorgeous tapestries.”

What else would John want her to say. Wasn’t that enough? “I love you. So much.”

John just stared blankly at her for a moment. “So much. Good. And then ...” he prompted.

“And then ... I would be glad if you said you loved me too,” she finished. “Please say that you love me.”

“You offer me tin when I ask for gold,” John retaliated, practically pouting. “Tell me how you love me.”

“Very much,” she tried again. John only responded by dropping his head into his hands. Mary tensed in fear. “Please John, I love you.”

“That again?” he mumbled.”

Maybe he wanted to hear it in a new way. “Oh no, I do not love you.” This got John to look at her expectantly. “I adore you,” she finished.

“Oh, this is too much,” John huffed as he rose from the bench and made his way to go inside.

Mary jumped up after him. “Forgive me, John, I’m so in love I’m growing stupid.”

He turned on her. “I agree, and it displeases me as were you growing ugly.” Mary tried to interject but spoke over her. “Retrieve your lost eloquence. Otherwise, leave.”

“But I-”

“I know. You love me. Good night.”

“I want to say-”

“That you adore me. Good, now go away.” And with that John closed the large doors of his manor on Mary, leaving her alone in the growing dark of evening. She stood shocked still for a moment, still comprehending the disaster that had just unfolded before her. She then let out an exasperated wail as she kicked the ground and a nearby flower bed in frustration and disgust. How could she have been so stupid? Why did she tell Sherlock to leave? She needed his words.

The sound of slow clapping broke her from her fit. If she was honest with herself, Mary was only slightly surprised to see Sherlock coming from his hiding place behind a hedge. At the moment, however, she was fixed only on her anger that he had been watching the entire time and had not helped her. “Felicitations,” he called. “A great success.” She resisted the urge to punch him in the face or stab him with her sword.

“For God’s sake, help me,” she cried.

“Umm, no,” he replied shortly.

She couldn’t really blame him, but at the moment she wasn’t in the mood for his obsinence. “I shall die, here and now, if here and now I find no way to make him love me again,” she said. And Mary knew she was being childish. Both were. But one of them had to be the bigger person to figure this mess out and it wasn’t going to be her.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “You idiot, how do you expect me to-”

A sudden light above her caught Mary’s attention. “Wait,” she said. “His window.” The light shone through the curtains that hung on the opens doors of his balcony. A large tree hung over the side, blocking much of the view of the garden. John must have gone to his room. How she longed to be there with him.

Sherlock was too staring at the window, but lost in deep thought. “It’s getting dark out,” he mumbled.

Mary gave him a hopeful look. “Yes? Will you-”

He turned on her. “To reinstate you may not be easy. Still, we have to try. Stand here in front of the balcony where he can see you.” Sherlock mover back to under the trunk, hidden by the branches. “I’ll stand underneath and whisper the words.”

“But-”

“Just trust me,” he said. And as much of a horrible plan she thought it was and that it was doomed to fail, she was forced to recall what had just previously ensued. Sherlock’s plans did seem to work out best for her.

She sighed and asked, “How do we start?”

“Call to him.” Mary cried out John’s name, but he didn’t appear. She picked up a few pebbles at her feet and threw them at the window. The large thunk grabbed John’s attention. “Who is that,” he asked as he came out onto the balcony.

“Me. I. Mary.”

“So,” he said disdainfully.

“I have to talk to you,” she pleaded.

“You have nothing to say to me. It’s clear you no longer love me.”

Sherlock’s quiet voice whispered, “Such heresies, such unjust slanders.” Mary just stared at him, confused as to what he meant. Sherlock made a frantic and irritated ‘go on’ motion, promoting her to duplicate his words.

The two fell into a sort of rhythm: Sherlock would whisper a phrase a Mary would repeat it. It was awkward and unpreferable. Mary’s delivery was overly staccato and she had no idea what she was saying, only that she was speaking of love and monsters and herculean efforts - whatever that meant. But she gave her speech as much bravado as possible. It seemed to have worked; John was smiling down at her now, and that made it worth the pain.

“Quiet excellent,” he said when she and Sherlock had stopped, “but why do your words come so - halting out? It’s as if your poetry suffered from-”

“Gout,” a voice, sounding slightly female, called from beside her. Sherlock. Above John giggled at the rhyme. While the man was distracted, Sherlock pulled Mary close to him. “This is getting difficult,” he huffed quietly as he unclasped Mary’s clock and put it around his own shoulders. Putting the hood up to cover his head, he motioned for her to stay as he made his way to Mary’s spot in view of John. She now had to put all trust in wooing the man she loved into Sherlock’s hands. Everything could go wrong.

-o0o-

Sherlock crept into John’s spotlight, sure to stay slightly in the shadows so the man wouldn't notice the height difference. As for the voice, he could only hope that raising the octave would help; John was never too observant before and he would hopefully not pick up the skill of deduction at the present moment. Sherlock looked up to see the doctor still laughing at the rhyme. He loved the easy smile on his lips.

John finally regained his confusion. “Tonight you hesitate so strangely. Why?”

“A good question,” he began slowly. How was he going to explain this. “My answer is: each word gropes through the darkness, looking for your light.”  He smiled at his poetic excuse, but when he looked at John’s reaction, it was knowing disbelief.

“If that were really so my own words would limp, just like yours. Come, try a less absurd explanation.”

Sherlock sighed. “Very well. Taste this: my heart is open wide - your words can’t miss so large a target. Or, heavy with the honey of desire, zigzags to the orifice of your tiny ear and buzzes blunderingly, seeking its way in, its wings heavy with love. Or, should these not suffice, then, finally, since your words fall, they yield to gravity: mine have to rise and fight it.”

“It seems to me they fight less hard now than they had to do a moment ago.”

“Ah, but a moment or two of loosening up in gymnasium words wonders.”

John gave a look that told him he’d play along. “Am I so far above you, still?”

“So far, I fear, that one hard word could kill, crushing my heart like a stone.”

“Then I’ll come down to you.”

“No!” Sherlock cried out quickly, moving further into the safety of the branches.

The doctor slowed his movements, confusion written on his face. “Such a vehement no. What’s the matter?”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh, searching for an answer. “To hold in my hand such exquisite joy - I dare not waste this precious chance to speak to you unseen.”

“Unseen?” John asked wearily.

Sherlock gave a sad smile. “A disembodied spirit, clean of the clogs of accident and decay. You see a cloak of trailing blackness; you to me are the white of summer. I am a shadow and you the quintessence of light. How can you know what it means to roam this transitory meadow sunlight through the darkness? If ever-” He paused, unsure of how to explain himself. “If ever I was  eloquent.”

“You’re very eloquent,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “But you have never heard till now my true heart truly speaking. Tonight, I address you for the first time.”

John nodded. “The first time, yes. Your very voice has changed.”

He froze, only now realizing how his voice was slowly dropping into its natural baritone. He cleared his throat with embarrassment. “My heart’s true essence is emboldened by this darkness to speak out, freed from the choking asthma of the fear that you might laugh at me-”

“Laugh at you?” His eyes narrowed at the ridiculousness of the thought. “Why?”

Sherlock breathed out a soft sigh. “Because of the unworthiness of a fool, an insufficiency that seeks to clothe itself in a sun set of words.”

“You've never spoken like this before,” John said.

“These tokens: stale words, stale honey. What are they worth compared to the wild urge that shouts, that beckons our bodies to plunge and drown in the wild river.”

Sherlock heard a gasp above him. “But, you can’t say that about poetry.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Poetry, rhyme, nothing more than a game of words. A moment comes-” He paused, thinking of his relationship with John, how the man wasn't speaking to him, but Mary. “And God help those for whom it never comes - when love of such nobility possesses this shaking frame that even the sweetest word, the ultimate honey, stings like vinegar.”

“If so,” John questioned, “what, when the moment comes for both of us, what words will you say.”

Sherlock looked up to see the expectancy and hope his love’s eyes. He decided, in under the cover of the night and a false identity, he could let the truth pour out. “In that most precious instant,” he began slowly, lovingly, “I shall take all words that ever were, or weren't, or could, or couldn't be, and in mad armfuls, not bouquets, I’ll smother you in them.” John’s face revealed his surprise at the words, but also the total adoration for them. “Oh God, how I love you: I choke with love, I stumble in madness, tread a fiery region where reason is consumed, I love you beyond the limits that love sets himself! I love, I love your name, John, swings like a brazen bell, telling itself - _Jawn, Jawn_ \- in my heart’s belfry, and I tremble - Jawn, Jawn - with each bronze, gold, silver reverberation. Listen, I swing down the rope to earth’s level, to each small thing - trivial, forgettable, unforgettable by me - that ever you do or did.”

John was shaken to the core by the honest of the speech. “Yes, this is love.”

Sherlock smiled at how he had moved John with just his words. “Love. Oh, can you see this, feel it, understand? Do you sense my heart rising towards you in this intense stillness? This night I speak, you listen. Never in my most reckless, unreasonable dream have I hoped for this. Now I can gladly die, knowing it is my words that make you tremble in the blue shadow of the tree. For it is true - you do tremble, like a leaf on these branches, swaying in the night’s wind.”

“Yes, I do tremble,” John agreed, “and I weep, and I am yours.”

“Ah, to die, death is all I need now after this summit gained. I ask one thing-”

“A kiss!” a voice next to him called out. Sherlock turned on Mary in a rage. She was supposed to stay quiet and not intervene. “What?” she whispered, indignation scrawled across her face. “You got him into this state. Why shouldn't I get some benefit out of it?”

Sherlock was about to retort when John’s voice slowly and shyly came from above him. “You wish to speak of a-”

“Kiss,” he finished. Sherlock had to dig his way out of this mess. He wasn’t even sure he wanted a kiss happening tonight. No, he didn’t. Not at all. But John would be happy. “The word is sweet enough, and yet your lips are shy of saying it. If  the word burns them, what is your presage of the thing itself? Fear should consume you.” The man was blushing profusely by now. “Yet after all you've glided insensibly from mockery to a smile, from a smile to a sigh, from a sign to a tear. Now slide from a tear to a kiss. It’s but a heart beat’s distance from that to this.”

“Do be quiet,” John said quietly, but his smile proved he didn’t mean it.

“Its the eternal vow, like that spring will shine through the harsh winter, who will comfort the golden fall, that ripen the buzzing summer, who will burst from the quiet spring. Like the seasons I am constant and faithful.”

“Like them you are beautiful,” he added.

Sherlock’s words caught in his throat; he was unable to speak through the lump that now hung there. He gave a small huff of a laugh to mask the pain. “So I am,” he spoke softly. “I’d forgotten.”

John leaned over the edge of the balcony, searching for the cloak that defined his lover. “Please, come up here.”

The soldier retreated into the thick of the branches and turned to Mary. Sherlock  removed the cloak and gently wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. “You heard what he said,” he whispered while he tied the front ribbons. Regretful surrender was written across his face. Mary, however, seemed frozen in place, petrified at the thought of actually kissing John. Sherlock, already heartbroken, had no energy or patience for her ridiculousness. “Get up there,” he snapped under his breath. “What in hell’s name are you waiting for?”

“I’m not really sure that this is the right time-”

“Move you animal!” he yelled softly as he put his hands around her waist and all but pushed her up into the tree. She desperately clung to one of the branches as she hoisted herself up. From there Mary could reach the railing of the balcony and ungracefully hauled herself over it.

John, startled by the intrusion, quickly shifted his gaze from one of apprehension to adoration. Mary just gave a short nervous laugh. “Ah, John,” she said, unsure of what to do. John came towards her, putting his hands on either side of her face. She instinctively reached for his chest, her hands clinging to the front of his shirt. John’s thumb stroke her cheek as he smiled at her. His eyes bore into hers, asking for permission. She gave a small nod, and John slowly pressed his lips to hers.

From the shadows Sherlock looked up upon the happy couple, filing him with emptiness, with the longing of he in Mary’s place. He still had one consolation: the knowledge that it was his words that John kissed and not hers.

With a heavy heart he went to exit John’s manor. There was nothing left for him here. But he saw a hooded figure coming up the path - a Capuchin of sorts and no doubt coming to speak with John. He composed himself as if he just arrived and called out “Ho there!”

John instantly broke away from the kiss, turning bright red. Mary was clinging to him in confusion. When he saw who it was below him he rubbed his face with his hands. “What are you doing here?”

“Is Mary up there by any chance?”

“Sherlock!” She cried with a show of surprise. “What do you need.”

“There’s a Capuchin coming your way,” he said. “It’s probably something for you. You’d best come down.”

John gave an audible sigh of frustration as broke away from Mary. Both exited the balcony as the Capuchin approached.

-o0o-

John was not pleased with Sherlock showing up out of no where to ruin a perfectly wonderful night he was having, and less so that it was being fully interrupted by some monk. He turned back to Mary, who was clutching his wrist as he lead her through his home. “I apologize for all of this.”

“Think nothing of it, “ she said. “It isn’t as if you caused it. Just be sure not to let me get lost in here.” She gestured to the massive manor.

“Hopefully you find it a more pleasant journey than climbing a tree.”

They both laughed as they opened the front doors. Outside Sherlock was having an animated conversation with an old man, hunched over in his brown robes. He heard the something mumbled by the Capuchin, something about a note.

“Letter?” he asked.

“For Monsieur Watson,” he replied.

“I am he.”

The monk handed him a folded piece of paper with his name scrawled on it. “A very noble lord gave it to me to give to you.”

John felt his blood run cold and his stomach drop. “Moriarty,” he muttered vehemently. He wished he wouldn’t know why the man would contact him so soon, but deep down he knew. He unfolded the paper slowly, the weight of its contents filling him with dread.

_The drums are beating. The regiment is ready for the march. I have already sent the story about that I have gone on ahead, but infact I’m here in the convent - as I said I would be. I’m sending this by an old monk who, naturally, has not been told of its content. I must see you tonight. I must. Your smile both beckons and maddens. I hope and trust you have already forgiven my audacity and will give a welcome to him who hopefully, sincerely wishes for your love._

_Your humble, loving friend,_

_Comte James de Moriarty_

His hands were clenched around the paper, creating creases and tears. His nostrils flared in an attempt to calm himself down, but to no avail. Why didn’t Moriarty listen to him? Rationally he knew why, but it wouldn’t help the situation. Legally there were very few ways to hold off the Comte’s advances: John was his ward and therefore subject to him, and Moriarty was connected, most likely controlling, many of the aristocrats and lords. He was practically above the law. Only if he were married would he have legal standings to fight him. And if Moriarty found both Sherlock and Mary here, both would be in grave danger.

John was about to rip the apart the letter in frustration when he felt a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned his head to see Sherlock standing behind him, giving him a pitying look. No doubt he had read the letter as well. John felt his anger melt at his friends touch, and he brought his hand up to Sherlock’s in a gesture of ‘thank you.’ He looked to Mary, who was staring at him with worrying eyes.

An idea suddenly came to John’s mind. It was rash, impulsive, and best idea he had thought of all day. He got himself into a fit again, broke away from Sherlock, and hurried to the Capuchin. “Father, this letter concerns you,” he cried.

The old man squinted at him. “Does it?”

“Yes, and it’s terrible.”

“Come my child,” he said, putting his hand on John’s arm for comfort.

John took a deep breath to compose himself and began. “‘Monsieur, it seems His Eminence the Cardinal will have his way, whatever you say or do.’” John’s eyes raked the page, but read none of the words, instead weaving his own story as he went. “‘That is why I send this note to you by a very _holy, intelligent, discreet_ Capuchin. Instruct him, please, to meet these - my instructions, which are that he is at once, in your house, to perform the ceremonies of Holy matrimony-’ This is tyrannical!”

John waved his arms in aggravation, while the Capuchin desperately tried to calm him and make him finish the letter.  He stole a glance at Mary, who was confused and furious, and seemed unable to decide which emotion was more prevalent. Sherlock was trying to deduce John’s endgame, and it was obvious he didn’t like to be in the dark.

John composed himself once again to finish the letter. “‘His Grace the Cardinal demands the nuptials of you and Morstan. This is hard new, I know. But all that you can do is resign yourself to the command of His Eminence, who sends his blessing and His wishes for much happiness. I end with my own good wishes. Your humble friend, etcetera etcetera.’” John folded the letter with the quick, sharp creases of anger.

Mary was overjoyed, ecstatic although still confused as to what had just happened. Sherlock wore his mask of indifference, but John knew better - he could see it in the man’s eyes. He was upset, and John couldn’t tell why.

The Capuchin’s voice invaded his thoughts. “Cheer up my son, it is not so horrible. Who is the betrothed?” He looked to Sherlock and gave a quizzical squint. “You?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth hanging open wide. Before anyone could answer, Mary said, “It’s me - I am the bride.” Something flashed across Sherlock’s face, but it was gone before John could read it.

The monk turned to her, looking her up and down in apprehension. “Are you sure.”

John quickly reopened the the letter. “‘Postscript,’” he rushed out, “‘ Give to the convent, in my name, one hundred and twenty louis. Signed: the same.’”

The Capuchin gave a wide smile at this. “A worthy lord. It’s very rare to find blue blood allied to such a generous mind. My son, resign yourself.”

“I am resigned,” he said melodramatically. John went to Sherlock. “Moriarty is coming,” he whispered. “We don’t have much time to-”

“How long will it take?” he asked the Capuchin.

“Oh ... about fifteen minutes, sir,” the monk replied.

Sherlock gave him a hard look. “You’d better make it five.”

-o0o-

The group rushed into the manor, frantic to complete the wedding. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were just coming to see what the noise was when they were swept into the proceedings. They located themselves in the hall for the ceremony, the Capuchin preparing his part while the women went to clean Mary up, removing the dirt and twigs that she acquired from her trek up the tree..

John didn’t have time to change out of his night shirt - he was lucky he was wearing breaches. Sherlock, not wanting him to feel undressed, removed his waistcoat for his friend, holding it open for him. When John understood what he was doing, the doctor smile and turn around for him. Sherlock slowly put the coat around John, savoring the touch. He smoothed out the fabric with gentle, loving strokes. John turned back towards him, fastening the buttons in the front. “How do I look?” he asked.

Sherlock just stared at the beauty that was John Hamish Watson, someone he could never have. “Perfect as ever,” he said quietly. Sherlock gave his friend a small smile to fight off the pain inside. He was going into battle.

Mary came rushing into the room, her hair swept back into place and her dress smoothed out. Her face and hands were washed and soft. She looked beautiful. John was beaming at her, and she was beaming right back. They were both so happy. The walked down the aisle made of their friends and servants, arm in arm.

The Capuchin began his slow and drawn out speech. John and Sherlock glanced at each other worriedly. John cleared his throat, trying to get the old man’s attention. The monk stopped at looked down at him. The doctor gave a smile and said, “We really your detail, monsieur, but we are in a bit of a hurry and need this to be done as soon as possible.”

The old man humphed at the slight, but picked up the pace none the less, skipping far ahead in the speech. John and Mary exchanged grins of excitement. “Now you take this man to be your lofty wedded husband?”

“I do,” Mary said, practically beaming.

The Capuchin asked the same to John. The man turned to Mary and gazed into her eyes. Sherlock couldn’t bared to look and closed his. “I do.”

“I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” The others cheered around him, and Sherlock threw in a few claps, smiling and opening his eyes, but averting his gaze away from the kissing couple. So it was only he who noticed that the front doors had opened during the wedding and that a man stood in the back of the hall.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock snarled, grabbing everyone’s attention.

The Comte gave a slow clap to John. “Clever, Monsieur.”

“Baron,” John proudly corrected.

The Capuchin hobbled to Moriarty. “My lord, the knot is tied you bade me to tie.”

Moriarty took in the room. “As I can see,” he said with narrowed eyes, which finally fell on John again. “You, Baron, bid goodbye to your paint-fresh wife.”

Both John and Sherlock blinked in confusion. “Bid good - why?” John stuttered.

The lord turned on Mary with a smirk. “Your regiment leaves tonight, Madame. Be so good as to report at once.”

“You mean for the war?” John asked, seething. He slowly approached Moriarty with fire in his eyes.

“This is what regiments usually leave for, Sir.”

“You promised the cadets were not going,” he all but shouted. John tried to leap at the man, but Mary held him back. Sherlock was frozen to his spot, unable to help or intervene.

Moriarty just gave a laugh at John’s efforts. “They are and always were.” The Comte reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded stack of documents, shoving them into Mary’s arms. “Here is the order. Pray deliver it, Madame.”

Mary’s eyes were growing red and her breath irregular. She turned to her husband to see the same had happened to him. She reached for him, burying her head underneath his chin, savoring the only time she would be able to do so. John held her close, kissing the top of Mary’s head and stroking her back. He lifted her chin up and captured her lips in one last kiss.

Moriarty came into Sherlock’s view, distraction him from the couple. “The wedding night is still a good ways off,” he sneered as he walked off. Sherlock reflected on that comment. It disturbed him less than it should have.

Sherlock slowly approached the embrace couple and pulled Mary from her husband apologetically. She tried to resist, but he forcefully yanked her away. “Come on. Enough. Let’s go.”

She snatched her arm away. “You don’t know how hard it is,” she said through a strained voice.

Sherlock looked past her at John. “Trust me, I know.”

The sounds of drum beats out on the street penetrated the hall. The vibrations shook them to the core. “We’re marching,” Moriarty shouted over the beats. He saluted the soldiers in the room sardonically and marched off in triumph.

Mary took in a long breath and composed composed herself, schooling her features and hardening her face. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders. Prepared for the fight, she slowly marched off into the night to join the guards.

Sherlock was about to follow suit when a hand wrapped itself around his arm. “Take care of her, Sherlock,” John asked.

“I’ll try, but I can’t really promise,” he said as he turned to face his friend for the final time.

“Be sure she stays warm and dry.”

“As far as is soldierly possible.”

“Keep her away from other men.”

“Not even the odd little chat,” he asked with a sly but hollow grin.

John lightly slapped his arm in response, but it wasn’t harsh by any means. “Make sure she writes to me every day,” John added.”

Sherlock stiffened at the mention of the letters, but the guilt turned into one of determination. One last gift before he dies. “Monsieur, I can certainly promise you that.”

The two stared at each other for minutes, hours, no one knew. Sherlock desperately wanted to reach out to him, cling to John for safety and solace; to hold on to his love and never let go; to kiss him until his own fears disappeared. He wanted to take every word he’d ever written and smother John in them until the man finally understood the weight of the emotions he felt. He wanted to chant John’s name like a prayer over and over until it wished away the darkness coming. He wanted to finally say the three small words that had been lodged in his throat for years, earning, desperate to break out.

Instead he held out hand, and John took it, and they shook on the bond of friendship, kinsmanship, and nothing more.

To that, Sherlock proud and mighty, stood into the moonlight, welcomed by the constant beating of the drums, to join the ranks of men and women about to die.


End file.
